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During these recent months of life in our “Sweet Land of Liberty,” how many prayers of gratitude do you think God receives? For example, prayers such as, “I give thanks for my life and health and for the lives and health of my friends and family.” More likely, I imagine, God gets lots of petitions, of wishes to be granted, such as: “Please God, let the Packers beat the Cowboys.”

Other than Abraham offering to God the life of his son Isaac, how often does God get offered anything at all? Something simple, let’s say, such as my colleague Mira Clark shows in this admirable image. “What is the woman offering?“ a friend asked. “And what is it that symbol above her hands?”

The symbol is obviously important, and I’m not sure what it means. Does that matter? Instead of the symbol, let’s imagine something else, anything: a bird’s nest, for example, or a small brass bell dusted with snow, or a bouquet of cypress roots, or even a cocoon of maple leaves about to burst into . . . ? Is the symbol as important as the gesture itself? For me, the gesture, a radiant woman offering light and water, is sufficient, the crux of the image.

We’re aware that we are living in a swamp, bombarded by government lies, deliberate cruelty, and hatred as matters of official national and international policy. What can an individual offer instead? How about Truth, for example, kindness, love, and light as well? Since God already has these things, why not offer them to other humans instead?

More of Mira’s thoughtful images appear on her website: miraclark.com

Long months of living in Spain led me to imagine that Death is Feminine: La Muerte, twin sister of La Vida. What a surprise to dream one night that Death has a husband.

You and I first met each other
in the house of Death. At the
time he was not at home.

We knew his house is never
far away from wherever
we happen to find ourselves.
In this case, his cottage was
almost hidden in a cluster
of leafless maple trees.

Light seeped into every
empty room. We couldn’t find
a toothbrush, or a light bulb,
or a stick of furniture,
not even a roll of toilet paper.

I held you close to kiss
you, but you said, “No.”
I kissed you anyway. You said,
“Yes, yes.” We pressed
into each other and only
then felt the presence of the
owner of the house.

He was metallic, as gray
as clouds in January, as
immobile as a sculpture
of Tutankhamen on his throne.

“Mr. Death,“we asked,
“why don’t you allow
yourself a more stylish
coat of paint? Would
basic black be a cliché?

“And those little shoes. Who
shines them for you? Please
forgive us, Sir, we were so
absorbed in discovering each
other we forgot you arrived
to terminate our lives.”

The house’s roof and walls
suddenly evaporated and we
found ourselves in rain and
darkness, pressed together,
like a pair of maple leaves,
swept away in a storm
with a thousand other leaves.

Since then I’ve tried to find
Death’s home and you, who
kissed me, but after many
years I’ve not found either.

Perhaps one day, another
storm will blow us back
into the house and we two
leaves will be pressed
together in a folder in the cabinet.

“A last question, Mr. Death:
when you close the drawer on
what had been our lives would
you please shut it on us gently?”

I know the truth.
Forget all other truths.
No need for people
anywhere on this earth
to struggle.
For what? Poets?
Lovers? Generals?

Look: it is evening,
Look: it is nearly night.
The wind is level now,
the air is wet with dew.
Soon all of us will sleep
Beneath the earth,
We, who never let each other
Sleep above it.

Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941)

This painting was born during the 1990’s out of deep foreboding. On the other side of the world from my home, the Soviet Union had collapsed, and in what had been Yugoslavia, Serbs and Croats were at war, killing each other, as if to say, “we no longer have to hate the Soviets, let’s hate each other.”

Here in Freedom’s Land and Bravery’s Home, we are living Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet upside down: “How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.” By presidential fiat, what had been our Dept. of Defense is now our Dept. of War. Against what? Against the usuals subjects, of course: whatever and whomever is not like us, especially those with skins darker than ours.

On a deeper level, we struggle against the Earth, our own Mother. Deeper still: we struggle against kindness, compassion, empathy, caring, gentleness, against whatever is deemed “not manly.”

At the center of the painting a woman embraces a man and sings a song he doesn’t want to hear: “I want a whole man, dear one, not just a half. Look: the sun rises at the edge of the woods. Look: it welcomes us to dance together in the snow. Embrace me and the woman inside of you. Embrace all of our sisters too, or your tomorrows will be only dismal repetitions of your yesterdays.”